Rich by Nikki Grimes Page A

that.’”
    Dyamonde Daniel would not trade Free for anything. He washer best friend, wasn’t he? But that boy had a lot to learn.
    “First off,” said Dyamonde, “I’ve seen you buy lots of things. And second, you are not poor.”
    “Then how come I can’t buy that new video game?”
    “My mom says everybody wants something they can’t have,” said Dyamonde. “That don’t—doesn’t make you poor.”
    “Well, what do you call it, then?”
    “Not having money right now,” said Dyamonde.
    “Same thing,” grumbled Free.
    “No, it isn’t,” said Dyamonde. “Poor is…” Dyamonde thought for a moment. “Poor is having no clothes, and no food, and no place to live, and nobody who cares.”
    “I guess,” said Free. “But I still wish I could get that new video game.”
    “Well then,” said Dyamonde, “you’d better get to school so you can graduate, so you can get a job, so you can buy your
own
video game.”
    “Forget it, then,” said Free.
    Dyamonde play-punched him in the arm.
    “You call that a punch? You punch like a girl,” said Free.
    Dyamonde pulled her arm back and punched him for real this time.
    “Ouch! I was just kidding!”
    “Come on, then,” said Dyamonde. “And hurry. Mrs. Cordell said she’d have a surprise for us today.”

Surprise
    “Attention, class!” said Mrs. Cordell. “I have an announcement.”
    Great!
thought Dyamonde.
Here it comes!
    “First, how many of you like contests?”
    Everybody’s hand went up except for Dyamonde’s. She wantedto wait and see what this was all about first.
    “Well, the local library is sponsoring a poetry contest!” said Mrs. Cordell.
    Tameeka groaned. So did Charlie. But then, Charlie groaned about everything.
    Mrs. Cordell ignored the groaning.
    “The top three poems will be published on the Kids’ Page of the Sunday newspaper.”
    “Oooh!” said one kid.
    “I could be famous!” said a second kid.

    “You wish!” said a third.
    “And the winner,” said Mrs. Cordell, “will receive a check for one hundred dollars!”
    “Oh, snap!” said Free.
    Dyamonde did not even have to look at Free to know that his eyes were bugging out. She could just see him with imaginary dollar signs and little video games floating in front of him.
    “Now, who would like an entry form?” asked the teacher.
    Free’s hand shot up higher than anyone else’s. Dyamonde didn’traise hers. She decided to wait for a math contest. That’s what she was best at. But she was curious to know who
was
trying out for the contest.
    Dyamonde looked around the room and saw lots of hands. One of them belonged to a quiet girl named Damaris Dancer.
    Damaris was a pretty girl, really tall, with skin like dark chocolate mixed with strawberries. Her reddish brown hair hung in heavy twists that made Dyamonde think of a lion’s mane.
    Damaris raised her hand a little higher, just in case Mrs. Cordell hadn’t noticed her.
    That’s strange,
thought Dyamonde.
She never raises her hand for anything. I wonder—
    “Psst,” said Charlie from the seat next to Dyamonde.
    Dyamonde turned to him, annoyed.
Don’t psst me,
thought Dyamonde. She would have said as much out loud if Charlie hadn’t distracted her by pressing a note in her hand.
    Dyamonde unfolded the torn loose-leaf page and read:
    I’m a poet
    and I know it,
    and now I got
    the chance to show it.
    Free
    Oh, puleeze!
thought Dyamonde, shaking her head. Then she wrote something on the bottom of the page and sent it back.
    Can’t wait for lunch.
    Hope we have punch.
    Dyamonde
    Free laughed and Charlie asked, “What’s it say?”—loud.
    “Is there something you boys would like to share with the class?” asked Mrs. Cordell.
    “No,” said Free. “Sorry.”
    Dyamonde bowed her head to hide her smile.

Lunch Punch
    Dyamonde beat Free through the lunch line. She’d downed half a carton of milk by the time he joined her at the table.
    “Doesn’t look like punch to me,” said